Learning To Fall
by BaldiDaughterChevy
Summary: Sam's first experience with love. My first experience writing a multi-chapter story! Thousands of words worth of angsty Sam and Dean and so many big brother moments will ensue.
1. Growing Pains

**Guys...I've done it...I've started a multi-chapter story.**

 **I don't know exactly what this is, but it literally possessed me this evening and I couldn't stop writing it.**

 **I'm only gonna publish the first 1,500 words tonight, I've got more written, but I need to polish it first and since I have the perfect cliffhanger to end on, ripe with juicy foreshadowing just to make you squirm, I will leave it at this first bit.**

 **I'm not gonna make any rigid promises for update times, because I get consumed by other ideas and I may have some one-shots in me that I have to get out before I complete a chapter. I will TRY for once or twice a week though.**

 **What I hope is that you guys will hold me accountable and not let me waver on this.**

 **Rated T**

 **Don't own anything but these humble words.**

It's a lesson every hunter has to learn.

They go about it in a couple of ways, easy or hard, to quote the overused expression. The hard way involves black bruises, broken bones, concussions, internal bleeding, punctured lungs, to name a few. The hard way lands you in the ER nine times out of ten, and the other time, it's the last thing you ever learn.

John Winchester prefers his boys take the second option. But the 'easy' way has it's downsides too.

Dean was kind of a natural at falling.

The first time he ever got thrown around he was only 10 years-old and it was by Mrs. Oak, the sweet little schoolteacher with a penchant for beating on her students.

Timmy in second grade forgot one of his times tables and she whacked his palms with a ruler until he screamed and bled, and she just kept going. Timmy's mother asked him about the weals on his palms but he didn't tell. Everyone knew Mrs. Oak would kill you if you tattled.

John couldn't exactly call the authorities when she tossed Dean into a crumbling stone wall that left his spine and right arm severely bruised and aching for days.

Good old Mrs. Oak, the sunny schoolmarm, had died in 1895; shot in the face with a muzzleloader by little Timmy himself.

But Dean, small and fragile and years away from ready for that kind of punishment had somehow gotten right up. Sore but standing, he shook off the impact and grabbed John's zippo, flicked it once, and ignited the pile of grimy bones that were all that remained of Mrs. Oak's corporeal form.

"Mrs. Oak, up in smoke." Dean sang it out with childhood pride above the ashes of the burning bitch.

Later on John told the story over a couple of beers to his hunting buddies at the roadhouse.

Yeah, Dean was a natural faller.

Sammy, on the other hand...not so much. Took everything John had to keep that gangly boy from cracking his skull open. And he really tried everything.

When Sam was about 11they practiced fighting for hours, sometimes he'd put him up against Dean, shouting out directions from the sidelines while the boys went at each other.

But it was hardly tooth and nail. At age 15, Dean was mostly grown into himself, though still wiry and lean, he already showed the lines of musculature and broad shoulders that would make him a perilous fighter in years to come.

But with Sam he held back, pulled his punches. And no amount of swearing and shoving on John's part could get Dean to really lay into his little brother. It was a psychic block that ran deep through Dean Winchester, a weakness for his Sammy that would only increase with time. Like magnets with opposite poles, Dean's force simply died when he got near Sam. His fists came in contact like pats and caresses, just running out of momentum before they fell.

So most of the time it was John who sparred with Sam. And Dean couldn't even watch.

Sam was a good fighter, he worked hard, he was fast, he kept swinging. He had the offense down, but, goddammit, that boy didn't know how to minimize impact on himself. He threw himself into fighting so hard that every blow that rained down on him hit like a ton of bricks. Dean wondered how many black eyes and micro-fractures it was gonna take before his little brother learned to stop bearing the brunt of every fist.

And falling, oh god, but Sam knew how to get hurt when he fell. He made a fucking art out of it.

On his first ever hunt with Dean and John, Sam had just turned 12. He got kicked down a flight of stairs by the ghost of a little girl.

The girl had big sad eyes and a huge bow fastened onto what was left of the back of her head. The satin fabric, still pink in places, was mostly black with blood, sopping up the leaking bits of her brains in the mottled pit where her father had gone at her with a carving knife in a drunken rage.

Sam's shock and compassion had left him rooted to the spot and the pretty child showed Sam that sugar and spice and everything nice doesn't carry over into the afterlife.

His misguided heart got him a fractured tibia and a seething lecture and

he spent a week in the hospital getting pumped full of expensive painkillers and crying silent tears onto the plastic-coated pillow.

John never went to see him. He said babies who let themselves get tossed like that after everything he'd done, didn't deserve visitors.

Dean had just gotten his temps but he drove down to that hospital after his dad was asleep. He charmed a sleepy nurse at the front desk to let him in after visiting hours and came into Sam's room laden down with hot cocoa and snacks from the vending machine.

One thing's for sure, Dean never knew how to let a blow fall on Sammy.

In the weeks that followed, John tried a new approach to Sam's training, keeping up with their regular sparring, but incorporating the lessons into his daily life.

They'd be walking out to the Impala and John would swipe a foot out and trip Sam up, then stand back and watch him fall. He'd grimace and shout "foosh, Sam!" An acronym in martial arts meaning 'falling on outstretched hands', a natural reflex, but one that would earn you a cracked wrist in a real fight. Sam had a sprained wrist to manage for awhile and a new wrinkle of hard-knock knowledge in his brain.

John would push Sam off his bed in the middle of the night, shaking his head when Sam landed face-first. "You'll learn, son. Or die trying." He'd mutter while Dean ran for a warm washcloth to soothe Sam's bloody nose.

There wasn't a time in the next year, when Sam wasn't on edge. His dad was clever and Sam was learning, slowly and painfully, but learning all the same.

Eventually, a creak of the floorboards at 3 am could jar Sam out of even that witching-hour-peaceful, sweet-spot of sleep. A change in the pitch of the fan on the air conditioning from a body passing in front of the current could make his hazel-green eyes flick open, body tense and catlike for the strike.

Sam learned to tuck and roll, to soften his growing body so that concrete was like a cradle, and his father's fists like kitten-paws. He learned to spread out the force of his impact, to protect his head at all costs, to never land on his wrists. He stopped plunking like a cartoon bunny, splat-flat on the unforgiving ground-to land on meat not bone.

By the time Sam was 15, he was at least as good as Dean at taking hits and getting kicked around.

Hunter evolution complete. Level up and bonus points.

John was as satisfied as an old-marine corp drill instructor ever could be. Dean was proud to the point of blindness.

Which is why they never saw the biggest hit coming.

 **To Be Continued... )**


	2. Turner Falls

**Et, voilà! Chapter 2!**

 **I'm finally happy with it, I think...at least until after I publish it...**

 **I've got another 2,000 words started on chapter 3 already and I have a general idea of where I'm taking it but just struggling with the specifics. Bear with me if it takes me awhile to update after this, because I've got a few one-shots to get out of my system in the meantime.**

 **Anyways, this was extremely fun to write and I've worked in a couple OCs which is a brand new thing for me, but I'm already starting to like them and I hope they will hit it off famously with you guys, as well, once introductions are complete.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **P.S. Things will get much darker from here on out...so enjoy the fluffy comfort...because the bed of nails is looming. *maniacal laughter***

Sam grew into himself a bit quicker than Dean ever did. Once his skinny frame decides to start growing there is no stopping it. Dean jokes that Sam must be shooting up Miracle-Gro to make him expand overnight with such weedy exhibition.

"It's like Little Shop of Horrors with you, Sammy. Or should I say, Audrey," he quips to Sam's signature bitch face.

A hunter never really completes his training, but eventually, there comes a point when John is legitimately afraid to spar with Sam because he's surpassed him in both speed and agility. John's the one with bruises now and Sam is becoming the best fighter, researcher, maybe hunter period, that John has ever known. Maybe even better than Dean.

Other than his initial hiccup in early training, Sam doesn't have an awkward phase associated with his growth spurt. He spreads out and slips naturally into his newly developed arms and legs, like he's been waiting all his life to become this towering, graceful, killer that fights like a fury and loves like a puppy.

And as Sam turns into a gentle, murderous, giant, Dean fills out beside him. The resulting duo is magic and myth. Your garden variety ghoul doesn't stand a chance against the Winchester's, and they fight seamlessly, a partnership built on years of doing everything together. Fighting is a dance, and for the two teenage boys, the steps come as naturally as breathing.

John beats back the surge of pride that swells in him sometimes when he hunts alongside his sons, they don't need to know how well they are doing, they are already cocky enough, and arrogance and accidents are conjoined twins.

That summer in '98 starts out as the best of their lives.

After the three of them clean out a small vamp nest, in Turner Falls, Oklahoma, John runs off to pursue a lead in Arkansas. They ask to come, of course, aren't used to being left behind at this point, but he leaves anyway without much explanation and a stern warning when Sam tries to argue.

He doesn't try too hard though; Turner Falls is a beautiful place for two teens to spend the early summer, and Sam was hoping for a tiny break. This is the place to take that break.

So John takes the Impala and drives off, leaving them at this small motel called the Coronado Inn. They still have money from previous ventures and they're both old enough to work now, so this won't be like all the other times spent hungry and lost and waiting.

The Coronado Inn is actually a nice little place, a huge cut above Winchester standards.

Set directly in front of the path that leads to a national park, it has backpacking trails for miles, that twist and turn past waterfalls and mountains. At the risk of sounding like a travel brochure, it's a prime vacation spot with easy access to a million, cheap summer thrills.

It's also homey in a way that they are painfully unused to. Even though the rooms are still set up like individual bungalows, side by side, like a cheap roadside motel, it almost has a bed and breakfast feel. There are handmade quilts on the twin beds, bird paintings on the walls that look like originals done by a child or someone very young, doilies on the tables, and a little-old lady who runs the place. When John had booked the room at the beginning of the month, She jokingly asked if they'd be wanting one cat or two for their stay. She said it with a laugh, but all the cats roaming the lobby made it seem like it could be a serious offer, if they were interested.

Mrs. Milliver is the owner's name and Dean and Sam like her at once. She has a soft, comfortable, motherly look, just the way an old lady should. With her tight, grey curls, probably permed once a month at the local beauty parlor, and her floral print, baggy dresses, she seems like the wholesome grandmother they've never known.

Dean especially likes her when she invites him and Sam back for a slice of homemade pie.

It's no cardboard-box, jelly-filled, gelatinous pie either. This is buttery, flaky-crust, warm from the oven, kind of pie, filled with black raspberries picked in the patch out back by Mrs. Milliver herself.

The look Dean gives her when he takes his first bite causes her paling-blue eyes to fill and she puts a hand on his shoulder and says "doesn't anyone take care of you, boys? You don't have a mom or a grandma somewhere to make you homemade meals?"

Dean shrugs and looks anywhere but at her and Sam could swear he sees him swipe at his eyes when Mrs. Milliver walks out to the front desk to help the next guests. Not that he'd ever comment on that. He isn't suicidal.

Yeah, that June is something special.

In the mornings, Dean and Sam hike through the state park, past the waterfall and deep into the woods, and in the afternoon they spend time in the quaint, touristy, downtown district.

The town is wealthy and modernized, one of those places that was probably like Dodge City in the old days. It has since been given a facelift by the upper-class crowd who decided that mountains and waterfalls made a quaint niche for their luxury homes and private schools.

It has a little of everything and not enough of anything. There are plenty of boutiques that sell $50 scarves and whimsical art galleries and antique stores, but it's the kind of town that attracts newlyweds or honeymooners, or bored old people. There isn't a lot to recommend it to two teenage boys.

Dean gets fed up with the place pretty quickly.

One afternoon they get burgers and sodas at "Becca's Bistro" the closest thing Turner Falls has to a diner.

Dean and Sam are seated at one of the tall tables in the corner with their food, eyeing the upscale customers and getting eyed in return.

Sam feels distinctly out of place in his jeans and flannel; for a western town there wasn't a lot of western-wear to be seen. Everyone who came into this place hads a look of champagne and Chanel and Sam cowers a bit under their scrutiny.

He feels the silent judgement keenly, still to young to have the transcending confidence that he will assume with age.

Dean on the other hand is perfectly oblivious. As always.

"What do you call this exactly?" Dean picks a leaf off of his sandwich and holds it up, dripping ketchup and mayonnaise on the quaint cafe table.

"Umm, kale?" Sam grabs a napkin and reaches across to clean up the mess Dean's making.

"What the hell is kale?" Dean says, rather too loudly, and a parched-mouth patron in the corner raises an eyebrow in their direction.

"Shhh! Can't you be a little quieter?" Sam is trying to avoid eye-contact and Dean throws him an eye roll, lifts the leaf to his mouth and takes the tiniest bite.

"Oh my god, what is that? It tastes like bug spray. Like bug spray or actual bugs."

"Don't eat it then! Jesus!" Sam whispers angrily.

Dean sets the leaf aside with disdain and starts in on his burger. "Ok, alright," he nods "not bad, better with bacon, but not bad."

"Sooo, Sammy..." Dean smirks and Sam knows whats's coming. "See anything you...ahem...like?" He cocks his head minutely to a busty girl in the corner. She's got blonde hair and porcelain skin, huge blue eyes and she's chatting with her friend and smiling way too much. Her teeth are blindingly, bleach-white and even from across the room she looks like she probably has about three brain cells total.

"Give it a rest, Dean." Sam mutters and goes back to his still intact sandwich, kale and all. It doesn't bother him.

"Hey, you know what, Sam? You are too picky." The statement seems hypocritical, since Dean is currently picking every bit of anything green off his sandwich. "I don't even know what you're looking for in a girl these days."

"I'm looking for a girl who has some kind of substance, Dean, maybe even one who can recite the entire alphabet without getting stuck."

"Hey, you don't need smart, Sammy you just need...available and willing." Dean winks.

Sam sighs and ignores him.

Dean is determined that Sam needs to find 'the girl' for him, by that he means the one who will be Sam's first, his summer love, that beautiful, far-off, daydream of a girl who would change Sam from a boy into a young man overnight. The one he'd spend the rest of his life recalling to buddies, when the nights were winding down and he'd had a few too many shots.

That's Dean's one ambition for the summer. Other than finding a few locals of his own to mingle with.

"This is a girly town." Dean grumbles. "For instance, why did I get fruit in my soda? I just asked for a Coke."

"They didn't have soda like that, Dean. You were in the bathroom so I got you an Italian soda. It's cherry, you'll like it"

"Italian sod..." Dean scoffs "why go to Italy for soda? We have perfectly good drinks here. I'm telling ya this place needs some color. I'm gonna have to shake things up a little."

Sam doesn't comment but he's a bit worried about what Dean means by 'shaking things up'. It sounds dangerous and/or humiliating.

Dean burps loudly and laughs when it draws even more looks from the hoity-toity customers. After a moment his face darkens a little and he shakes his head.

"Look at all these fancy people, Sam. Judging us and shit. They have no idea what we did here. That vamp nest up by the falls was getting bigger all the time. If we hadn't wiped it out when we did, this whole sweet paradise would have gone from Turner Falls to Pottersville in a couple months. Only instead of drug-dealers and whores, it would have been blood-suckers ruling the streets."

Sam agrees with that and he nods, grimly.

Dean slurps up the last of his Italian soda loudly and straightens his AC/DC t-shirt before sliding down from the tall chair.

"Lets get out of here, Sam. We gotta find some action. If there's any to be found."

Sam's version of 'action' is getting lost in 'The Bookworm,' a vintage bookstore on the corner of the street, and avoiding Dean's plans for him with every bone in his overgrown body.

Dean says old bookstores give him the creeps. Something about dust and words mingling together in humid corners, he feels like the souls of all those books are crying out to him, like voices from beyond the grave. And he has way too much of that in his life already.

Anyhow, the really hot girls, the kind Sam needs, aren't to be found among novels.

"The only chicks you'll meet in there, Sammy are gonna be 70 plus with as many cats as grey hairs and sacks full of thumbed-over romance novels."

Dean had said with a disappointed shake of his head as he walked off to the nearest park.

"It's still a fancy-ass park, but at least there's girls in jogging pants." Dean logic for the win.

Sam browses the shelves for awhile, getting a stack of different novels and hauling them around.

There's a big, leather armchair in the corner, but still facing the door. Sam's training has taught him enough to know better than to get caught with your back to an entrance.

He takes his stack of books and settles in for the afternoon. It's so nice to read for pleasure, and not for research and he skims through his finds.

He's got The Count of Monte Cristo; Dumas is a favorite after reading The Three Musketeers, and this one has a jailbreak and revenge, which sounds promising. He's got some lesser known Tolkien novels, Children of Hurin, The Silmarillion, just your basic Middle Earth anthologies. He pages through a collection of short stories by H.P. Lovecraft, then sets it down-it's a little too much like real life for his taste.

The bell rings on the door and he glances up and sees her.

Olive.

The girl who will make this the most memorable summer of his life.

 **Chapter 3 will be up ASAP!**

 **Thanks so much for reading!!**

 **Send me comments, critiques, or scathing reviews...well, maybe not that last one, I'm fragile.**


	3. Olive

**Finally posting this chapter now that I've got some of the next under way.**

 **It's not terribly dark...yet...just a little angsty.**

 **Without giving anything away, I'm trying to set up some details that will play a big part in the upcoming chapters. It's a tad difficult for me because I'm only used to writing one-shots.**

 **This is the longest chapter I've posted so far and I hope I didn't include a whole lot of unnecessary bits. The thing at the end I loved, even if it might not be strictly, what you'd call 'snappy writing.' I just want the boys to have a mother figure so I wrote one in.**

 **Anyhow, hope you enjoy chapter 3!**

Sam doesn't even know her name is Olive. Not until his fourth visit to the bookstore when he hears her boss calling it out to her from the back room.

Over the next week, Sam spends nearly all his hard-earned cash (which, after a night hustling in the last town, amounts to about $200) on books that he barely reads. Books he doesn't need, but he buys all the same, then stacks neatly in the bottom of his duffel, banding them together with an old belt.

Frank, the owner of The Bookworm, is overjoyed at the business. He's a gruff old guy who always wears a soft tweed suit that looks like it's circa 1933, and he tells Sam he needs to start a tab.

What Sam needs is an excuse to see this girl called Olive.

Olive, has a glow about her that makes Sam think she might be an actual angel. She comes in every afternoon for her shift from 12 to 5 and she always wears her dark, brown hair in a loose ponytail. The flyaway, spiral curls puff out around her face like a halo, adding to the angel impression. She dresses different too, in a long skirt that swirls around her legs and moves with her as she sorts and orders the novels on the shelves, reaching up to reveal a whisper of golden-tan hipbones outlined cleanly against the edge of her creamy-soft top.

She looks about his age and when he finally gets the nerve to say more than "thanks, have a good day," (A process which accounts for the many superfluous book purchases) he learns that she is 15 and half. Exactly the same age as him.

He learns a whole lot about her after that. Once he asks her a couple questions she can't seem to stop talking, a feature which further endears her to him, since it compliments his shyness.

Frank isn't too pleased with his employee's sudden attention and tells them they have to relegate their talks to slow times or break times. But since there really isn't a busy time at the bookstore, Sam and Olive's spark ignites under Frank's disapproving eye.

He learns that she moved into town in the fall, that her family is from Malta, an island in the Mediterranean, that she's cold all the time, even in the summer, because she's not used to the midwestern weather yet. He learns that she likes to eat cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches on her lunch breaks, and that she only drinks flavored, sparkling water because regular water is too boring. He finds out that she's technically too young to be working, but her family needs the money so she's helping out and getting paid under the table. He learns that she wants to be a writer and that her favorite novel is The Catcher in the Rye.

Sam's never read it, but he spends his last bit of money on it, and tucks it away for a rainy day.

They have long conversations about literature on her breaks, and for the first time in his life, someone wants to discuss intellectual things with him for something other than info on a hunt.

One day they talk about their future.

She's leaning back against the bench in front of the store, her legs crunched up beside her, and Sam is sitting next to her. He's careful to make the contact of his legs against her bent knees seem as casual as possible. Even though just that whisper of touch is enough to send his hormone-soaked brain into overdrive.

"You know how you spend your life wanting something, and then the closer you get to pursuing it, the more you doubt yourself?" She's swirling her mineral water around and taking sips from the straw while she speaks and Sam is trying not to be distracted by the pout of her lips against the plastic.

"I don't know." He replies, suddenly realizing that he's never really thought much beyond his assigned lot in life until this moment.

"You don't know?" She laughs. "Come on, Sam. You've never doubted your ambitions?"

"I guess...I guess I just don't know what I want to do."

She sighs "Well, you're lucky. You know how hard it is to succeed as a writer in this market? How much competition there is out there?"

Sam shakes his head silently.

"Well, trust me, it's hard. Without a degree it's nearly impossible. And I don't know how I'm gonna afford college."

"Scholarship?" Sam volunteers.

"Well, yeah but, I mean, I don't know if I could get a scholarship to a real college, I have pretty good grades but I don't have time for the extracurriculars that most kids put on their applications. My family needs me most of the time."

Olive drifts for a moment, looking far off, the usually sunny expression replaced by a sudden shadow.

"Are you ok?" Sam asks.

The sadness flits across her face and past her eyes and she smiles again, the spark of light returning. "I'm fine."

She readjusts and Sam catches his breath at how closely she sits next to him. She's just fits herself into his side so easily, this mysterious puzzle of a girl, falls into place with him, like he's her missing piece.

He can smell her...perfume? He wouldn't necessarily call it perfume. It doesn't seem sprayed on. It's more like a tang of something cinnamon and citrus that clings to her like part of her essence.

"Sorry for complaining. It's hard to believe that I'll get away sometimes. And it's hard to believe that I deserve to."

Even though Sam hasn't really considered his future up to this point, he understands this, feels the truth of that sentiment twist at something inside him.

"Olive," he says her name and it's like a prayer from his lips, "I think you can do anything you want." He says it with the adoring blindness of young love and it might not be unbiased, as he stares into her chocolate eyes, trying not to wilt a little. It might not really be true either, but he can tell from the way she's smiling, her wide mouth quirking softly, that he's said the right thing.

"Thanks, Sam." She mutters and that smile, oh god, that lovely smile is just everything. It makes him impossibly bold and he finds he just wants to see what she tastes like when she's smiling.

Their first kiss is clumsy, a tangle of tightly pressed lips that barely brush each other. Sam apologizes and starts to explain that it's his first time and Olive just laughs, says it's her first too. She puts a hand on the base of his neck and pulls him back to her. Their second kiss is softer, still hesitant, but more open and less nervous. Their third kiss-that's the charm. An innocent, melting caress that lights a fire inside Sam's stomach. It's warm and rich and slow and steady and all the things that a third-try first kiss should be.

When they part from it they're both trembling a little, he's blushing, cause he always blushes and she's smiling even bigger than before.

Sam walks back to the motel and Dean doesn't quite understand the look on his little brother's face, or why he seems so happy, but he has immediate suspicions.

"What's got you flying around on cloud-nine?" He questions, then adds "what's her name, Sammy?" Dean's no idiot and Sam's blushing...again... and it's all the affirmation Dean needs.

"Wait, it *is* a girl!"

Sam tries to get to the bathroom, laughing a little, despite himself, but not making eye-contact.

Dean blocks him. "You gotta tell me everything, Sam! It's not fair! My baby brother's finally getting some action. I want details!"

"Myob Dean, mind your own beeswax!" Sam dives to the right and ducks under his big brother's arm, all 6 feet and counting scrunching down just in time and slamming the door.

"Sammy! What's her name? Sam!" Dean shouts to the closed door and then he hears the sound of running water as Sam starts up the shower.

Their entire second week there, Dean begs, cajoles, and bargains, but is only met with blushes and a brick wall.

Finally he settles for regaling Sam with stories of his own conquests and sex-capades and Sam's poor, hormonal body is aching. Adding to that, it's Olive's week off and she's been at home caring for her little sister while her mom works. Sam hasn't seen her in days.

Since their first kiss Sam wants to do nothing but stare at her and think about kissing her and plan when he can kiss her again. It's madness, absolute, sun-soaked, twitter-pated madness, of the young love variety. Swept up in the current, he has no control over himself and he happily lets it pull him along. He goes about forgetting to eat, barely sleeping, can't sit still, mind racing with thoughts of her-it's real torture, and it's the most wonderful agony he's ever known.

A part of him knows he's living out a fantasy. He knows that it's only a matter of time before whatever this is comes crashing down around him, but he's still full of that youthful thoughtlessness that doesn't pursue feelings too far beyond the now. He's seen a lot, but he's always been an idealistic one and his hope for everything is still undimmed, flaring on through the darkness of his life.

Dean worries. He had hoped that Sam might find his 'flower to deflower' as he'd so delicately put it, but this thing seems different. They had that horribly embarrassing discussion about using protection and responsibility and all that, a talk that really should have come from John, but, let's face it, that was never gonna happen. And so birds and bees was down to Dean just like a million other fatherly things.

But that's not what he's concerned about right now. This thing, whatever it is, seems like more than just infatuation and attraction. The way that Sam's been acting, the look he gets when Dean just mentions this girl, he doesn't even have to say her name and Sam gets embarrassingly happy.

Dean's almost jealous.

The only girl he'd ever come close to feeling like that about was Addie Masters when they'd stayed in Springfield for those 3 months in 2nd grade. She had blonde pigtails and wore pink dresses and had the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen...and she hadn't given him a second look.

He made her a Scooby-Doo valentine that said 'you're my sweetie pie' and featured Scooby himself holding up a heart-shaped pie in a box. He wrote 'I think you're the prettiest girl in the world, even prettier than Daphne' and slipped it into her desk before she got there. He watched her find it and open it, and then just look around and toss it out.

He still remembers the pain of that silly rejection 12 years later. Given that, he's justifiably concerned.

He tries to talk to Sam about it for what must be the thousandth time one night.

They're sitting outside their motel room on the steps, sharing a beer that their dad left behind; drinking it in plastic cups so as not to arouse Mrs. Milliver's suspicion.

It seems the old lady has taken to watching them a bit too closely lately, and Dean is not overly thrilled by the unwanted supervision. She's not watching them per-se, and she'd no doubt be outraged at the suggestion, but she manages to be in the wrong place at the right time most days. Or vice versa, depending on who you're asking. She shows up at their door an awful lot, 'just to see how Sam's feeling'. She saw the sutures on his arm from where that long-nailed vamp had ripped into him during their final showdown, and she was terribly concerned, even when Sam assured her it was just a hunting accident. Dean told her Sam was fine and tried to shut the door but she'd held up a covered dish that smells so good he melted a little. She'd come into their room and set it down on the table, saying 'It's just chicken casserole, I made too much and thought you boys might be hungry'.

She shows up a lot after that, poor lady just can't seem to make food in small amounts.

As often as they complain about her, neither of the boys will admit how much they secretly like being fussed over. Plus, she cooks like an angel.

But they know better than to let her see them drinking suds straight from the bottle so they stick to their Dixie cups and Dean tries to casually broach the topic of Sam's sweetheart for the thousandth time.

"Bought any new books lately?" Dean has figured out pretty easily that Sam's new fascination with the bookstore isn't entirely about reading. It wasn't exactly difficult considering Sam doesn't go anywhere else and, even though he's a huge nerd, he's never bought that many novels in one month, as far as Dean knows.

"No..." Sam looks up from the cup in his hands and gives Dean a suspicious glare, disliking the start of this conversation.

"Hmm...sorry. I bet you're really missing all that...reading. Wink, nod" Dean says it *and* does it and Sam rolls his eyes.

"So how many...ahem...chapters have you read so far? One? Two...? If you say three and you don't give me details...I don't know if I can talk to you anymore."

Sam's frustration has been building for days and it finally bubbles over, "Perfect! Please, please, *please* give me the silent treatment, Dean. I'm really fucking sick of you trying to pry into my life."

Dean rocks back at Sam's tone. He was trying to keep it light but Sam rarely curses, that's more Dean's thing, and it shocks him to hear it. But then, Sam doesn't keep secrets about girls or research information about colleges (he'd caught him at that the night before and was still trying to ignore the small crater in his heart that it had created). Sam is growing up, and that's something Dean thought he wanted, but now that he's seeing it firsthand it does nothing but put his stomach in knots.

"I won't leave you alone, Sam." He says quietly, the mood has turned deathly serious. "I'm not just trying to be your wingman here, dude. You know I'm also getting kind of worried. You're acting like your falling for some chick and you know how our lives are. It can't last and I-I...just...don't wanna see you get hurt." He finishes the sentence quickly, trying to gloss over the chick flick connotation of that last bit.

Sam won't even look at Dean, he's staring down into his cup and he scoffs at his words."It's not your job to be worried, Dean. It's not your job to take care of me anymore. This isn't some sprained ankle, or nosebleed, or dad kicking me around, I can handle this myself!" Sam downs the last of his beer and gets up, his hands are shaking with anger and frustration and he turns to go inside the room. "Oh, and one more thing, Dean. Olive's not 'some chick' she's not some bimbo I'm keeping on the side. I'm not you. I want something better than that, I'm capable of something deeper than all that shallow bullshit. And so is she. If you ever call her 'some chick' in front of me again...I'll knock you out." Sam's words might be more threatening if his voice didn't squeak over the last sentence. If he didn't look just like a lost puppy that just got kicked in the head. Like a frightened kid trying to build a future around something he didn't understand.

Dean's partially in shock from Sam's words, it would have hurt him a lot less if Sam had sucker punched him. He sits there after the door slams behind Sam, staring at the quiet road that runs beside the motel, snaking off into the distance.

He can feel something coming. You can call it premonition, subconscious knowledge, or hunter's intuition, but there's a sinister mood haunting him these day.

At that moment he wishes so badly that he'd see the smooth, black shadow of the Impala coming up that road, hear her engine purring through the twilight.

But he doesn't.

His dad's not coming to save them, when has he ever? And Dean feels the bloodbath, literal or figurative, that's looming on the ominously peaceful horizon, he feels it dripping towards him and he knows that he'll be the one to clean it up. Because that's what he does.

"It is my job, Sammy." He whispers tightly.

He feels so tired, so old for his age. He puts his head in his hands.

"Hey there, sweetie. Everything ok?"

Dean's head shoots up and he sees (who else?) Mrs. Milliver, 'she of the horribly perfect timing,' standing there with a pan of something that looks like brownies.

"Oh honey, what's wrong?"

Dean raises a hand to his cheek and is mortified when it comes back wet. He sniffs and stares out at the road again, not liking the vulnerable ache that this woman's concern is setting up inside his chest.

"Did you want something?" He says it as harshly as he can but it does nothing to scare the little lady off. She sits down beside him uninvited and he scoots away, angrily.

"Well, you know me, I just can't get used to cooking for one since my husband passed. So I brought you some goodies." She holds up the pan of brownies to demonstrate and Dean sighs to calm himself. He just wishes she would leave him the hell alone, but she starts talking.

"You know it's awfully lonely out here sometimes. My boys used to keep this place hopping. I had two boys, just like you two in a lot of ways, they're all grown up now. Nathan's a teacher out in Portland, he was always the bookworm, and Phillip's a park ranger. I had one kid that never went outside and another who I had to drag in by his Timberlands. Polar opposites, those two. The same in all the ways that counted though. They had their daddy's heart."

She's quiet for awhile and Dean finds himself waiting for her to go on.

Finally she does. "Phillip though, he had that older brother complex, I'm sure you know." She smiles and Dean looks at her at last, hoping his eyes have dried by now.

"Thought he had to look out for everyone, thought he had to be strong all the time. Oh boy Nathan used to hate it." She laughs and Dean is shocked at the way she seems to see right through him, to know what's going on without having to ask.

"James and I used to say if Nathan got punched, Phillip would be the one with the bruise."

She shifts and her tone changes from reminiscent to motherly.

"It's not my place to pry, you know but you got that look, son. That worried brother look, Phillip always had. He's gonna be ok though. He's got a good guardian angel on his side."

She says it simply, and pats Dean's hand really quickly, then she casts an eye into his half empty cup of beer. She raises an eyebrow.

"Looks like light beer to me. That's piss water-pardon my French-If you need the real thing, I've got my own stash in the fridge."

Dean laughs suddenly, as much in shock as anything. "Umm, thanks?" He says.

Mrs. Milliver gets up slowly and sets the brownies down beside Dean.

"Of course, honey. Hope you'll have a brownie while they're still warm. That ganache is sinful and chocolate is almost as good as alcohol for inside wounds."

Dean's smiling a little when she walks away. Mrs. Milliver has helped some, but that darkness is still looming. He can feel it like a ghostly hand on his shoulder. He doesn't know what's coming but no little old lady with brownies is gonna take this lifelong fear away.

 **I hope you enjoyed Sammy's first kiss. He's too sweet and I love letting him have a little bit of happiness, even if it's only for awhile.**

 **I hope to develop Olive more in upcoming chapters, I feel like at this point she's one of those paper-cut out females that I hate so much.**

 **I really love Mrs. Milliver at this point, if you can't tell :) I just really love it when the boys have a mother figure in their lives, because they deserve all the brownies and pie and hugs and happiness in the world.**

 **Let me know what you think of this chapter, of my OCs, and any suggestions you might have for things you'd like to see in upcoming scenes.**

 **Tell me anything and everything you loved or didn't love about this and it will make my day :)**

 **Also...prepare yourselves, because, at the risk of sounding like a lamb, this is gonna get baaaadddd.**

 **All sheep-based puns aside, I do have some serious pain planned and I'm scaring myself a tad with it because I didn't know I had it in me to torture these guys so much...**

 **Lastly, thanks to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU who has reviewed my story so far.**

 **CBloom2, stedan, Lucyh95, , laureleaf, AlxM, and Kathy, my faithful guest reviewer. To cfccfc, you make me wanna publish it all in one day, if I had it in me.**

 **You all are amazing and it's hugely encouraging to hear from you.**

 **Stay tuned! I hope to post in the next couple days.**


	4. Rise and Fall

**Okay everyone, here we go. The darkness is creeping up now...**

 **I want honest opinions on this chapter because I feel like I brought up a lot of different issues and it's kind of overwhelming. I hope to tie it all together before the end but right now it just feels like a lot of disconnected threads, so let me know if I'm throwing too much at you at once.**

 **Alright, a couple things: there are mentions of child abuse and a very mild sex scene in this chapter. I kept it all as innocent as I possibly could, as smut is really not my forte and it would have been totally weird in this scenario.**

 **But fair warning if that is a problem for you. Don't read if it is! I understand.**

 **Okay...without further ado... chapter 4! My longest chapter yet!**

Sam doesn't even see Olive until the next week.

She's heading into the bookstore just as he's walking towards it and he catches a glimpse of her as she steps inside. He follows, trying not to run in his haste to get inside and see her again.

When he walks up to the desk, he's greeted by Frank's surly face. Sam isn't sure whether Frank is displeased that he's back to distract Olive or whether he's perfectly neutral, as surly seems to be Frank's default expression.

"Hey, Frank." Sam's practically breathless "is..." he starts to ask and Frank cuts him off.

"She's in the back, kid. Calm down, she'll be out in a minute."

A few minutes later Olive comes out, pulling her long hair back with a scrunchie. She looks half-shocked to see Sam standing there and he can't quite understand why.

"Hi, Olive. Long time no see." He blurts out then silently curses himself for his trite greeting. A girl like Olive needs a vibrant conversationalist he thinks, how is he gonna hang on to her if he loses the ability to form intelligible sentences.

"What's up, Sam?" She smiles but its not that same smile that he'd kissed into place over a week ago. It's strained and tired, and doesn't quite meet her eyes. Sam notices that her clothes seem wrinkled, like she's been sleeping in them. She's as beautiful as ever but there's a tired weight behind her eyes. It's an expression Sam recognizes, he's seen it before in the eyes of Dean and his dad.

His mood plummets instantly "Is everything ok?" he asks.

"Fine, just tired." She responds too quickly and the smile that leaps across her face is worse than tears.

"Ok..." he says hesitantly "Well I just came by to...see you, I guess" He says it shyly, it's the first time he's come into this bookstore with no pretense, but given their last encounter, he doesn't feel like the ruse is necessary any longer. It feels good to admit it. "I came to see you." He says it again more confidently and he's smiling now.

Her response is cold "I have to work, Sam. I can't really talk right now."

"Oh, ok I didn't mean to bother..." "I just have a lot to catch up on right now, I haven't worked in awhile and Frank doesn't do much around here." She goes for a little halfhearted humor and Sam can tell she's trying and failing to lighten the mood.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around." He starts to walk towards the door, then turns around "Can we get together soon, maybe later tonight?"

"I would like that, I'm just busy right now. I've gotta get back home right after work." She won't look at him.

"Ok, no problem" He's trying to act casual but he feels a knot of something hard and cold in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't have a lot of experience with polite rejection but it feels like that's what's going on now. "Well, let me know." He walks to the door his mind racing with thoughts of what he did wrong. Maybe she didn't enjoy their kiss as much as he thought, maybe he was too quiet, maybe he wasn't smart enough for her or not her type and she had just been too polite to tell him.

He makes it about 10 feet from the store before he hears pounding feet behind him. He turns around and she's running after him, her heavy sandals making a loud slapping against the pavement. She catches his hand and for one trembling, aching moment he thinks she's gonna kiss him again, but she just turns his hand palm up and slips a piece of folded paper into his grasp.

The look she give him is desperate, pleading. He knows that face all to well, he's seen it-hell he's felt it-more times than he can count.

Olive is afraid.

"Olive...what...? He starts to ask, but she turns around without a word and runs back to the bookstore.

Sam is standing there in shock long after she's disappeared. He shakes himself out of his stupor after a second and remembers the paper in his hand. He unfolds it and reads the short message in her neat, straight, cursive handwriting. "Meet me at the falls. 7 pm."

His heart skips a beat, he has so many questions. Namely what is she afraid of? But also why can't they spend time in public all of a sudden? Why couldn't she just tell him where to meet her out loud? His life of monsters and nightmares leads his thoughts in a direction that most people's would not stray and he worries that she's in some sort of trouble, maybe someone or something is threatening her. He realizes he knows barely anything about her-not even her last name.

He's still standing there in the sun, holding the note when Dean comes sauntering up behind him a couple minutes later.

"What ya got, Sammy?" Dean snags the note out of Sam's hands before he can stop him.

"Hey!" He tries to snatch it back but Dean's too fast, keeping it just out of his reach. He holds it up and tries to read it while diving out of Sam's way.

"Give it back, Dean. It's none of your business!"

Dean's laughing "I wouldn't even care except you're trying so hard to hide it." "Oops! Almost! So close, Sammy!" Dean's taunting Sam, he keeps getting close and Dean keeps sliding and slipping out of his way at the last instant. It's like that awful game, monkey in the middle that the kids at school used to 'play' with him before he hit his growth spurt, tossing around his backpack or lunchbox while he jumped to catch it. Except he's not in the middle, it's just Dean and he's not a short, little boy anymore.

He tackles Dean suddenly, all 6 feet of growing teenager hitting him like a ton of bricks. He throws Dean off balance and he slams back against the pavement. He lands hard, his back and forearms scraping on the rough surface.

"Give that to me."

"Or what?" Dean's still got the paper balled up in his fist and he's protecting it, a look of anger mingling with the fading humor.

"Or this."

Dean rocks back as Sam's fist connects with his jaw and before he can stop recover, he's got the note back.

"Goddammit, Sam!" He throws Sam off of him and stays there, laying on the sidewalk in shock. "That hurt! What the hell is your problem anyway? You're gonna beat me up over a fucking piece of paper."

Sam's voice is hard and angry. "Just leave it alone. Go bother someone else." Sam gets up and stalks off back to the motel, leaving Dean bruised and scraped and confused.

Dean comes back a little while later, bringing a paper bag of take-out for their lunch.

Sam's sitting on his bed reading and he doesn't even look up when Dean sets his food down on the bedside table for him.

Dean goes to the bathroom and when he comes back out, he's changed out of his scuffed up clothes. Sam tries not to look at the purple bruise on his brother's jaw, tries to shove down the guilt that's spreading through him. He can't believe he'd lost it to such an extent over Dean just being Dean. He should be used to his brother's questions by now.

He knows that it's just a manifestation of his brother's concern for him that makes him try to peel away at every layer of his life. It didn't used to bother him so much, but some part of him just wishes that he could keep Olive to himself, just for a little while longer. He's felt the brush of a soft, new life, of a better world on his horizon, one not so full of fear and loss. He's brushed against a peaceful future, tasted it in the words and on the lips of this beautiful new girl who's come to him. Dean is everything to him but he's also the side of himself that he's kept close, far away from Olive, and he feels like if this fragile, new world collides with his hunting life, any hope of a brighter future will explode on impact.

"Sam." Dean has walked over beside the bed and he's standing in front of Sam holding out a cup of soda to him like a peace offering. "I'm sorry." He says after a long moment.

Sam squints up at Dean half expecting to get kicked or punched or otherwise paid back. He doesn't understand what Dean could possibly be apologizing for since Sam is the one who attacked *him* earlier.

He looks at the bruise on Dean's jaw again, can't seem to keep his guilty eyes off it, and at the scrapes on his big brother's elbows. Dean gets hurt enough without him adding to his pain.

Sam takes the drink from Dean, these thoughts must flicker across his face, because Dean continues and he seems to have read Sam's mind.

"You deserve to have your secrets, Sam. If this chi..." He stops himself when Sam starts to glare at him "If this *girl* is so special to you then I'm sure you'll bring her around when you feel like it." Dean goes and sits down on his bed and Sam is stunned.

"Thank you...?" He says in disbelief.

"I take it that love note, or whatever that was you were so protective of, must be a good sign. You gonna meet her again soon?" Dean throws his hands up in a mock, defensive gesture "I'm not prying. Don't worry. Can't have you coming at me again."

Sam thinks this is probably the most mature thing he's ever heard his big brother say as long as he's known him. For Dean that was like an honest to god, perfect dad, Full-House worthy speech and he knows he should apologize.

But he doesn't.

He just can't bring himself to say the words at the moment. Dean doesn't deserve to be treated this way and Sam hates himself, but he sits in silence, disinterestedly chewing on some fries and staring at the TV.

Dean's turned on a Bonanza rerun and he's pretending to be wrapped up in whatever contrived drama the Cartwrights are going on about.

Sam sighs inaudibly, he can tell by Dean's face that he's hurt by his lack of a response. Not many people could pick it out, but you don't spend nearly every waking moment with someone for over 15 years and not learn a thing or two about their micro-expressions.

Dean is brooding in the least broody way possible, eating his cheeseburger with that customary last meal enthusiasm that is his big brother's trademark. But he's not laughing at anything on the show, not making any snide comments about the plot or the poor acting or the ancient looking women with huge hair and orange makeup that are supposed to be considered hot. In essence, he's not being himself.

Sam doesn't know what to say, so he just sits in silence beside his brother.

6 o clock rolls around and Sam is already primping.

He's in the bathroom for about 30 minutes.

Sam's not exactly growing a full beard at 15, but he shaves what little stubble he has using Dean's razor, of course, and then he starts in on his hair.

His hair is shaggy, not as long he sometimes wears it but long enough that it takes some serious fuss to make it look...well like he didn't spend any time on it. He's got a few choice hair care products inside his duffel bag, nothing too expensive, he can't afford top-shelf, not that he wouldn't like to.

He thinks while he styles his hair; thinks about Olive, of course. He feels like she deserves some sort of gift, something that he can give her to cheer her up from whatever is bothering her. He can't exactly go buy her flowers, he doesn't have time, and anyway he doesn't think that flowers are enough of a gift. He wants to give her something meaningful. After a minute he has an idea. He thinks it's perfect and the thought doesn't really progress from there, he just knows he has to give it to her.

After he's mussed and molded his hair to perfection, he zips the products back up securely, no way is he gonna let Dean catch a glimpse of the tiny salon in his possession.

He gets dressed, deciding on a plain, dark blue t-shirt and a pair of washed out jeans and sneakers. Nothing too fancy-he's gonna be hiking after all.

He comes out in a puff of steam and cologne and throws his bag back down beside his bed.

Dean glances up from the tv and squints his eyes. "Hey...is that *my* cologne I smell?"

"Probably." Sam mutters

"Wow so you beat me up, don't accept my heartfelt apology, use every drop of hot water, even though I have a date to get ready for too, ya know, AND you use my cologne?!"

And your razor, Sam thinks to himself.

Dean is shaking his head but something in his expression doesn't match his words. He doesn't look as angry as he should, in fact he looks...almost...proud? Yeah, that's it. "Have a good time tonight, Sam. I hope Olive's worth it."

"She is, Dean." Sam smiles a tiny bit, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth.

Sam goes back over to the bag that he's set beside his bed and starts rummaging through it. He pulls out a small velvet bag from the zipper pouch in the side and slips it into his pocket.

When he looks up, he sees Dean watching him.

His expression transformed from one of begrudging pride to dawning horror. "What is that, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head "It's nothing." He mumbles, slipping it into his jeans pocket.

"Are you sure it's nothing, Sammy? Because it looked a lot like Mom's locket."

Sam gets up and grabs a flannel from the back of the chair near the door and tries to ignore Dean.

"Sammy." Dean has gotten off the bed now, the TV playing forgotten in the background and he looks for all the world like a concerned dad. "What are you thinking here, man? That's mom's necklace. I know you think a lot of this girl but you don't know her that well yet." Dean is shaking slightly, he looks genuinely afraid and unsure how to handle this situation. "You don't know what you're doing, Sam."

He should be yelling, Sam would expect him to be yelling-but he's not. He's barely speaking above a whisper but it feels more threatening than if he were shouting at him.

"We don't have a lot of her stuff and you can't risk giving this away."

"It's mine. Dad gave it to me to do what I want with, and I'm giving it to Olive." Sam backs up, clutching the flannel and not taking his eyes off Dean. "Dean...what...?"

Dean crosses the room in a couple strides and Sam tries to make it to the door, but Dean grabs him and pins him against the wall before he can get to the handle.

Sammy might be tall but Dean is still stronger and he's got an arm planted firmly on Sam's chest, holding him there like he's still a child.

"You can't do this, Sam. You can beat me up, call me names, do whatever you want to me, but I'm not letting you throw away one of the last memories we have of mom."

Sam's chest is heaving and he won't meet Dean's eyes.

He knows he's being stupid, knows deep down that Dean is right, but he doesn't have anything else to give her and he feels he has to bring her something. He can't lose this relationship because it's the only thing he's had that's made him feel human in a long time.

"Stop it!" He shouts, shoving against Dean as hard as he can, but he just comes forward a bit and then Dean slams him against the wall again. He can feel the hard plaster digging into his back, feel Dean's arm bruising into his chest.

What he says next he regrets for a long, long time. It's the most cutting thing he can think to say and it makes his vision swim a bit when the words pass his lips.

"I'm not your kid, Dean. You can't protect me anymore. You never could protect me. You're not my dad."

The words have the desired effect. Dean sags like all the strength in his body has been sucked out by that awful phrase.

Sam pushes against him again and this time it's easy to shove his big brother off.

He storms out, slamming the door and leaving Dean for the second time that day, stunned and confused.

Sam trudges resolutely up the path to the falls, wiping at his eyes every now and then. There must be a lot of dust in the air, as his eyes don't seem to stop watering and his throat is raw and irritated.

The hike lasts longer than he remembers. He treks up a path that takes a slow, steady climb towards the crest of the tiny mountain that's more like a small hill in comparison with the ridges you can see outlined through the trees. There's a steep drop off on the right side, that tumbles down into an empty canyon and a dense woods on the either side.

When he finally gets to the top, he's out of breath from walking so fast and it's ten after 7.

The break in the trees at the crest of the hill leads to the exquisite waterfall that earned the town it's name; it's a glimmering rush of foam and froth that thunders into a clear pool of freshwater.

He doesn't see her at first, she's sitting down against a tree in a secluded corner of the path, looking out at the falls and he almost walks right by her.

"Sam? Hey!" Her small voice raises up at the end and he turns around and she's waiting for him, her long skirt spread out around her legs, and a quiet look of something desperate on her face.

"Hi." He feels a rush of excitement at the site of her, but it's twinged with anxiety at whatever ghost is haunting her expression.

"Hi." She replies quietly.

Sam sits down beside her, close but not yet touching. "How are you?" He asks simply, and she tries to smile but it comes out watery and thin.

"I'm not that great." She says after a minute.

Sam feels his heart clench and he doesn't quite know what to do. "What's wrong?" He puts a hand on her arm lightly, not knowing if he should touch her right then, but not able to help himself.

Olive takes a deep breath and tries to control her voice "Oh, Sam...It's...I just...I can't tell you."

"Of course you can. Olive, you can tell me anything."

"Not this." She wraps her arms around her legs, moving out of Sam's grasp and lays her head against her knees, turning her face away from Sam's gaze.

"If I tell you this...he might hurt you."

Sam feels suddenly cold, a chill of fear and anger stirring at the fluid in his spine. "Who?" He asks and his voice is deadly.

She shakes her head and leans forward more and her white top drifts a little up her back. Sam's eyes fall on her smooth golden-tan skin, and then he sees something. Up the middle of her back he eyes the edge of a dark, purple bruise, standing out like a warning against her pretty flesh. The chill that was a whisper turns into a scream and he can't breath suddenly.

"Olive..."

Realizing what he's seen, she changes positions hurriedly and tries to pull her shirt back down. But it's too late.

"Who did this to you? You said 'he'...was it...your dad?" Sam searches her eyes and the look of shame and fear tells him all he needs to know.

"I'll kill him." Sam's voice chokes over the words and Olive takes his hands in hers.

"Thanks, Sam. But you can't do anything about it." She shakes her head sadly. "You can't do anything but you can be here with me."

He hugs her then, or she hugs him, he doesn't even know who initiates the embrace but suddenly they're holding on to each other.

Sam's so angry and frustrated at the world. He's furious that anyone could hurt her, and he feels so helpless. He's pissed at life, how nothing can ever be simple, how so much pain has to surround everything he's ever known. He sniffs quietly and she hugs him a little tighter. He's holding onto her for dear life and he doesn't know why he's crying and she's comforting *him*-that seems backwards.

The sound of the falls and the voices of blackbirds echo throughout the peaceful grove. Over Olive's shoulder Sam watches the last of the fading sunlight playing against the water through the trees, making a sundog stand out on the clear pool below. It's a brutal paradox that so much hurt and so much beauty can coexist in the world.

After a moment Olive pulls back and sits against the tree again, looking slightly embarrassed at her sudden display of vulnerability.

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mother's locket, holding the little black, velvet pouch in his closed fist.

"Pick a hand." He smiles, putting out both of his fists in front of Olive.

"What is this?" She smiles at Sam and looks more genuinely than happy than she has all day.

"Pick a hand, you'll see." He repeats himself, smiling back at her.

She points to his left hand and he opens it to show her it's empty. She points to his right hand and he puts his hands behind his back and switches it to the other one.

"Damn, wrong again. You really have terrible luck, Olive." He teases, showing her his empty right hand.

"Hmm, I wonder how you did that..." She rolls her eyes "You did that so subtly, you should be a magician." Her tone drips with sarcasm.

"Well, try again!" He says with a smirk.

"You know, I feel like maybe this game is rigged." She points to his left hand again and he takes pity on her and opens it, holding out the little pouch.

She takes it from him, her long fingers lingering on his palm, and opens it carefully, tugging delicately at the gathered top.

She pulls out the pretty, little locket and smiles again. "Oh, Sam it's beautiful."

Holding it up by the fragile, silver chain, she undoes the clasp, wrapping it around her neck, and fumbles to latch it from behind.

"Let me help you." Sam offers eagerly.

She turns around and pulls her mass of hair off her neck to give Sam access.

He clips it easily, then freezes when he sees more bruises scattered about her shoulders. He puts a hand over the places like he can make them disappear with a touch and she flinches back.

For a moment the heaviness in the air had lifted but now it's back, thick and suffocating.

Olive brushes Sam's hand away and turns back around to look at him, dark brown eyes meeting his hazel-green ones. "It's ok, Sam. I'm ok. I just have to last a little longer and then I can go off to college and he won't be able to hurt me anymore."

Sam clenches his jaw and his expression is seething. "He will never ever hurt you again. I meant it when I said I'll kill him."

"This isn't your problem, Sam." Olive reaches up and brushes a lock of hair out of Sam's eyes. "But I love that you care so much." She leans up and kisses him for the fourth time ever. This kiss is desperate, aching, she puts her hand on the back of his neck and Sam feels like he can taste the sadness coming off her, the fear and betrayal.

He deepens the kiss, trying to give to her all the gentleness and happiness that she's already been denied in her short life-like he can heal all her wounds inside and out with that one simple gesture.

They stay wrapped up in each other for a long time, kissing each other slowly; exploring this newfound sensation. Soon they're laying down side by side; their bodies are cushioned on the bed of soft pine needles from the towering trees and he's running his hand up and down along her side while she plays with his hair.

The thick trees provide a shelter like a ceiling of soft green that filters the dappled light of the setting sun and makes spotted shadows fall across their tangled-up bodies.

She sits up after awhile-pulling back. She's flushed slightly and her soft mouth looks swollen from his kisses.

Sam is in awe of the amount of trust in her eyes as she slowly lifts her shirt over her head.

He gasps and the warmth that was spreading through him is replaced by a feeling of horror at the mess of purple and green bruises littering her pretty torso.

He covers his mouth with his hand and she reaches up and pulls it towards her.

"I need to feel something gentle. I need to remember how it feels to be touched by hands that don't want to hurt me." She whispers the sentence like she's somehow ashamed and places his hand, palm down, fingers splayed, lays it against her smooth stomach.

Sam doesn't breathe, doesn't move for a long moment, he just looks at her and wonders how he got lucky enough to meet this beautiful, troubled girl.

"How could anyone hurt you? How...how could..." He doesn't finish his thought, doesn't even know what he was going to say, just brushes his hand gently over her abdomen, tracing circles along her skin. Then he bends down and kisses each bruise, not like a simple kiss can make this better, but it's all he can think to do.

As the sun sets fully behind the trees he brushes against her and they lean into each other, the fading light hiding them as they lose themselves in touches, soothing invisible wounds with soft hands and wordless gestures.

It's after dark when they walk hand in hand down the path.

When it's time to part ways Sam finds he can't let her leave.

"I'm afraid to let you go back there." He whispers, clinging to her hand, trying to keep himself from panicking.

"It'll be ok. He's probably passed out at this point." She says it confidently but there's a numb fear in her face that makes Sam hold onto her hand even tighter.

"You can stay with me and my brother. Please? Just stay with us." He's pleading but she just shakes her head.

"Dean won't mind, you can just hide away with us and your dad will never know."

She keeps shaking her head, "Sam I have a little sister and my mom would lose her mind if I disappeared like that. I can't just leave them alone with him."

Olive doesn't say it but Sam can read between the lines that she's the buffer, absorbing the blows that would fall on her sister or mother. She walks away a couple steps, still holding his hand, their fingers pulling away slightly.

"Olive...please call me. If you even get a hint that he's gonna hurt you, you call me right away." Sam's trembling a little and trying not to let it show.

"I will. I promise." Olive is determined, she pulls her hand out of Sam's grasp and starts to walk off.

"Olive?" He calls out to her "Olive...I love you."

He can't see her face but he sees her turn around.

"Oh, Sam" she says "Don't do that." Then she turns and disappears into the dark.

 **What did you think?**

 **Please try and forgive Sammy, I know he was pretty awful in this chapter but he's young and in love and therefore not responsible for his actions.**

 **I feel really bad for Dean after what Sam said but I promise I will give him a proper apology in upcoming chapters.**

 **Sam will learn his lesson too. Though it's gonna be a rough lesson.**

 **Thanks for reading!!**


	5. Sins of the Father

**Okayyyy...get ready...It's bad and will get worse...**

 **I really, really hope my page breaks show up after I post this. I separated it at one point when I switched from Dean to Sam's perspective. If not, I'm sorry. The tone changes pretty clearly though so it shouldn't be too confusing to figure out.**

 **I have another 1500 words written but I only posted just under 3000 because I wanted to build the suspense.**

 **There are some scenes of child abuse in this chapter. Fair warning.**

Dean didn't show up for his date after Sam stormed out.

It wasn't the first time he'd stood up a girl-there were broken hearts all across America that bore Dean's signature-and it wasn't the first time he'd stood up a girl because of something that was going on with Sam. But it was the first time he'd sat alone in a hotel room on his bed with the curtains drawn, brooding into the shadows like an emo chick. Or actually more like a concerned parent.

Sam could scream and shout all he wanted that Dean wasn't his dad but Dean would never believe a word of it. He might not be Sam's dad but John sure wasn't gonna look out for him and someone had to, even if it was just to scrape up the broken pieces of his heart after the inevitable shatter.

He couldn't do much, but he could worry, and Dean excelled at that activity.

Sam was spinning out of control over this girl; Dean realized that now, and he wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't all his fault. After all he'd encouraged Sam to spend the summer pursuing the fairer sex, of course he'd had merely sex in mind when he'd suggested that, but his little brother was too deep for casual affairs. He should have realized that; he should have known that intimacy and love did not occupy separate chamber inside Sam's overgrown heart.

Dean comes back from his thoughts for a moment. He's got a pounding headache, had it ever since Sam laid into him that afternoon, and he rubs at his temples and sighs.

The darkness in the room is only disturbed by the flicker of the tv screen, flashing pictures that have no impact on Dean as he broods.

He knows for a fact that Sam is making a mistake, one that will cost him a broken heart at the very least, he's seen it too many times, been close to it a couple times himself, although he ran in those instances; ran as fast and as far as he could. The only two things Dean really fears are losing control of himself and by extension, losing his family. The two are linked, synonymous, so he buries his heart under 3 layers of flannel and a healthy dose of cynicism and sticks to his busty one-night stands.

Thinking of Sam, he's suddenly reminded of the fall he'd spent with Bobby a few years ago, training hunting dogs.

Bobby's pointer had given birth to a litter of pups in the early summer and he was determined to train them up so that he could sell them off to hunters. Game hunters that is, the kind who tracked beasts of the rabbits and deer variety, Bobby had nearly as many connections with that crowd as he did with monster hunters, and he thought he could get a fair price for the puppies if they were properly trained.

So while Sam was in school, Dean helped Bobby back at the salvage. Their days were mostly fixing cars and training puppies, but it was a good fall for Dean. Spending time with Bobby was always a break in a way. Having him around to lecture him and keep an eye on him and Sam, it took some of the pressure off Dean and it felt nice to have a surrogate father cooking meals and watching his back.

There was one scene from that time that comes back to him now.

Dean was trying to teach one particularly dense puppy just the basics, just sit and stay.

Every time Dean would point a finger and say 'sit', the puppy would listen, he'd hold his hand up, palm out and say 'stay' and the puppy would stay...until that moment Dean turned his back; then the darn dog would get up and follow along, pacing at Dean's heels, tongue lolling out, head up, and tail wagging.

It was kinda cute at first, but Dean was getting more and more frustrated. Eventually, he'd barely turn around and the puppy would get up. Dean would grab the pup and sit him down and shout 'Stay!'

Bobby had come in a couple minutes later and watched with that annoying, wizened smirk and a wordless shake of his head.

"Boy..." he'd said after a minute "that pup don't know which way is up with the way yer treatin' him."

"I'm trying teaching him to stay, he won't listen!" Dean was supremely annoyed at this point, but Bobby had just come over and sat down in front of the dog.

"Sit." He said and the puppy sat. "Stay" the puppy stayed...until Bobby turned around, then he got up and paced after him.

"See?" Dean had said laughing at Bobby's apparent false confidence.

"Wait a hot second, ya little idjit." Bobby griped, then he'd turned around without carrying the puppy back, and said "Sit." Once again the puppy sat, but this time Bobby stayed facing the puppy and backed away...and the puppy stayed sitting.

"Alright, now. Watch me." Bobby very slowly turned and walked a step away.

The puppy tilted his head to the side, curiously, jerked forward a bit...but he stayed.

"How...how the hell did you do that?" Dean was angry, shaking his head and confused.

Dean remembers Bobby's reply, clear as day, his tone of voice and everything.

Now, sitting alone in that dark hotel room watching the analog clock flick through the hours Dean hears Bobby's words echoing in his head.

The wise, old hunter had just shook his head and grinned again and said "you can't overcorrect 'em, Dean. Gotta let 'em make the mistake before you show 'em what's right or they ain't never gonna learn."

Sam sneaks in, god knows how many hours later and Dean hears him, but he pretends he's asleep. Leaves the light off, steadies his breathing, doesn't move an inch.

Sometimes the puppy's gotta learn from his mistakes.

The call that comes a few nights later alters Dean's resolution.

Sam and Olive had been out all afternoon together, but Dean has decided not to ask anything about it, figuring if Sam wants to tell him, he will.

Then the banshee voice of the telephone splits the quiet night in two.

Sam turns the light on and jumps up, almost like he's been waiting up for the call.

"What's...who the fuck...?" Dean can't form a coherent sentence as he sits up with squinted eyes and stares over at Sam who's got this red-alert look to his whole posture. He's gone very pale, still half-tangled in blankets but clutching the receiver to his head and not saying anything.

When he speaks finally his voice is unexpectedly quiet but it has 'that tone'- the one that sets Dean's heart pounding in his chest with some kind of nameless dread.

"Ok. Ok. Don't do anything. I'll be right there." Sam hangs up the phone and gets out of bed so quickly he stumbles over his own feet, catches himself and heads to the bathroom

"Sam? What's wrong? Who was that? Sam!" But Dean's talking to the air as he so often is these days

Sam shuts the bathroom door, seemingly immune to Dean's calls for him.

He emerges a minute later in wrinkled clothes, his hair sticking up in every direction and the impression of the blankets still smushed into his cheek.

"Sam. You need to talk to me right now." Dean's still rubbing at his face but adrenaline is spiking through him, making his hands shake and he's woken up quicker than he might have.

Sam goes to his duffel bag and roots around in it for a minute.

He takes something out and Dean is watching closely but Sam's so quick about hiding away whatever it is, that he doesn't even see it.

"Don't worry about me, Dean." Sam's voice sounds high and nervous but he looks as determined as Dean has ever seen him. "I'll be back before dawn."

Dean makes it out of bed at the last second, but Sam turns around, fixes his shirt and runs out the door again before Dean can grab him or stop him with a word.

The last thing Dean sees before the door latches shut sends a cold spike of fear his racketing through his chest.

It was a distinctive lump sticking up from Sam's waistband-a shape Dean knows in a second.

The outline of Sam's pistol tucked into the back of jeans.

~oOo~

Sam barely remembers how he got to the park.

After he hears the tone of Olive's voice he leaves the hotel in a blind rage, stalking into town like he's possessed by an angry spirit.

Luckily it's after dark in a small, respectably boring town, so there's no one on the streets. No one out to see this tall kid with manic eyes stomping down the sidewalk with a barely concealed gun showing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

When Sam gets to the park he sees Olive from a distance, a dim silhouette huddled on the park bench. She looks like she's shrunk down to half her size, curled in on herself and shivering in the damp night air.

Sam breaks into a run and gets to her side in a second.

He slips beside her and tries to hug her but she hisses in pain as soon as he makes contact and flinches away.

"Don't, Sam" She's begging him with a small voice and not looking at him and Sam sits back.

He has no idea how to handle this, he's shaking and terrified and outraged all at once.

"Where are you hurt? Olive, please." Sam can barely speak and he's trying not to let it show how badly he's panicking. "Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. Anything." He pleads with her and reflexively reaches out to to touch her and she pulls back so violently she slams her elbow into the back of the bench.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Sam cringes as she curls up even further into herself.

She turns her face towards him slowly and Sam sees the fresh bruises on her jaw and collarbone. He still wants so badly to touch her gently, like he had a few days ago, but he knows that will only frighten her further and he can't make this better with a touch.

"You're coming with me, Olive." Sam says after a minute. "You're coming back to the hotel with me and Dean, I have to make sure you're ok."

She starts to protest and Sam shakes his head. "You called me for a reason, Olive. I know you need help, and this is how I'm helping."

"No! No no no no..." she starts to lose whatever control she had and Sam sits there, helpless. "No, Sam." She finally manages "I've gotta go back." She's got her arms wrapped around her legs and she's rocking back and forth. "I've gotta go back. He was passed out drunk when I left but if he wakes up and I'm not there he'll go crazy. He'll hurt mom or Mabel. Or he'll kill me. I know he'll kill me, he tells me that all the time." Her voice is quiet, steady, and far away like it's coming from outside her body.

"Olive...you have to come with me..." Sam is still asking but he's starting to realize it's futile.

"I can't." She gets up suddenly, rubs a hand across her face, and shakes herself with a great force of will. Then she turns around and starts to head off towards the direction of her home.

"Olive." Sam gets up and follows her, "if you're going then I'm coming with you."

Either she's too weak to protest or she knows how badly she needs him with her and doesn't want to protest, because she lets Sam follow her all the way home. He stays right beside her, a tall, comforting shadow.

Her home is a small, nondescript, suburban one on the east side of town in a middle class neighborhood that's pretty downtrodden by Turner Falls standards. It's surrounded by other houses that look just like it, but there's a few touches that Sam recognizes as the work of a caring hand. There's a porch swing with red and white candy-striped cushions, and a pot of red hydrangeas in the corner by the door.

Sam notices these details through a daze, focusing on unimportant extras like his brain is shorting out from stress and wandering in spastic circles.

He feels the cold steel of the gun against his spine like an unrelenting hand, reminding him of it's presence.

They mount the steps to the front door and Olive gets out her keys and goes to open it. She tries to push Sam away, even though he's coming in beside her and not taking no for an answer.

"I'll be ok, I'll be ok..." She keeps repeating it but it sounds less and less convincing each time and Sam absolutely refuses to budge.

He takes a few steps back after fighting with her for a minute and trips over the potted plant next to the door. He crashes back and catches himself just in time but the resulting din is enough to cause a considerable disturbance. They both freeze in shock and terror and for a minute they think no one's heard.

Then a light flicks on from inside the house.

Suddenly he's standing in the doorway larger than life, in the flesh. Olive's dad, alive and kicking and looking like a greasy nightmare.

He's bigger than Sam expected, nearly as tall as Sam and wearing a sweat-stained white-t shirt. His dark, beady eyes glint out from his unshaven face, his sallow skin and bloodshot nose standing out in the dim light, like a billboard proclaiming "alcoholic" to the world.

Olive shrinks into herself, her entire posture seems to diminish like she's been deflated by her father's appearance.

"So this is where you've been every day lately. Whoring around with some fucking stranger?"

Even from a few feet away Sam can smell the liquor pouring off the man in nauseating waves. The man takes a step forward and Sam gets in front of her, trying to block her.

"Don't touch her." Sam's voice is quiet and sharp.

"Hahhaha! What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?" Olive's dad looks Sam up and down, judges him, or rather, misjudged him.

He lurches out a couple steps reaches right around Sam and grabs Olive by the shoulder, attempting to drag her inside. She plants her feet and resists with all the strength in her small body.

Sam surges forward. He tries to take Olive's other hand and pull her away from her father, but he's got an iron grip, even in his intoxicated state.

"Stop! You're hurting me!" Olive shouts and wrestles free from her father, going towards Sam.

Her dad grabs her by the hair dragging her away while she shrieks. "I always knew you were a slut. Just like your mom." He slurs the words and pulls Olive over the threshold. She's crying and thrashing. "You're not gonna have the strength to crawl out of this house by the time I'm finished with you."

Inside Sam sees Olive's mom, sitting huddled on the couch in the living room, holding onto Olive's younger sister. Sam thinks Olive had called her Mabel.

Olive's dad throws her against the counter and she crashes back, crying out as her back connects with the hard surface. He's standing there facing her and breathing heavy, gearing up to smack her around some more.

He turns when he hears the click of the gun.

Sam pulls the action back on his pistol and flicks the safety off. "I said, don't touch her."

Sam's voice hasn't changed pitch, it's cold and dangerous and cutting. He's standing in front of Olive's dad, towering over him more like, and he looks every inch of the fearless hunter.

The bastard is either too drunk or too stupid for his own good because he laughs, a sick, phlegmy, wet sound and he takes a step towards Sam.

"Kid, what are you, 12? You don't even know how to use that thing."

Sam's hands tremble a bit but he doesn't flinch.

"Sam, don't!" Olive screams, "Just leave, please! Just leave!"

Olive's dad takes another step towards Sam and then changes his mind and turns back around and kicks his shivering daughter right in the ribs.

Sam hears the sickening crack of her bones from across the room.

She wails in pain and hunches down into herself.

Sam walks two steps closer, takes aim, hears John's words echoing though his brain 'don't do nothin' halfway, Sammy, you always aim for the head.'

He lines up the shot and pulls the trigger.

 **The plot thickens...**

 **Sorry. That was trite. It's 3 am and I'm not feeling very original.**

 **Let me know what you thought! Thanks so much for reading and to all the wonderful amazing people who read and reviewed so far!!!!**


	6. Internal Bleeding

**I'm starting out with a monologue/narration bit that kind of echoes back to the tone of the first chapter.**

 **I felt like it was a relevant piece of character development given everything that happens in the next part. Plus it was really fun to write :)**

 **But I will get to the action pretty quickly, I promise!**

 **Once again, I switch perspective towards the end of the chapter, so watch out for that. In case my page breaks decide not to transfer.**

 **As always excuse my grammatical errors. It's un beta'd and I never want to go back over it myself a million times. Because I'm lazy. But also because if I did that I'd never publish it.**

 **That's all I got for now.**

 **Enjoy!**

Sam's a bleeder, that's what John always said.

The boy never did anything in a small way, little wounds bleed profusely, big wounds bleed like sons-a-bitches. Sam gets hit, he bruises black; goes down, and he goes down hard. And yeah, he'd learned to cushion his impact once upon a time to stay alive, but there's still something about Sammy that makes him crash with the velocity of a small freight train.

Dean, on the other hand, is a minimalist in every sense of the word.

He keeps his pain close, tucks it into himself and holds it tight against his beating heart. He does it with his pain and with the pain of his loved ones.

Dean is Sam's cushion and John's shock absorber-has been ever since Mary died, ever since he ran out of the house with his little brother while John raged and railed and sobbed outside and refused to believe his life was over.

Dean just hung on to Sam then, tripping and going down once on the way out, but cradling Sammy all the tighter, holding that baby to his chest and letting the ground scrape his own bare knees raw.

If it's possible to hold blood in like tears, with sheer force of will, I think that's what Dean did.

That kid was, is, and always will be, nothing more than gauze; a sponge to soak up the copious blood and tears of his family members.

But there are some hits that Dean takes much harder than his brother. The inability to let go of sharp objects is a trademark of Dean's personality. Every little wound inflicted on himself or a loved one, every shattered bit of them, he clings to with clenched fists. And for every drop of literal blood that Sam has shed, Dean has been drenched internally in overflowing buckets from his own invisible injuries.

Maybe Sam and Dean aren't that different after all.

Sam never takes a hit lightly, Dean never fails to break a fall, its a nuclear combination and the time-bomb is always ticking away.

~oOo~

Dean hears the shot before he gets to the door.

About 30 seconds after Sam fled in such a hurry, his big brother slipped on his shoes, threw on a shirt, grabbed a loaded clip for his pistol, and eased out the door.

He'd tracked along behind Sam, his giant shadow, thrown by the dingy glow of street-lamps, stretching out against the road. He'd followed him down the sidewalk, past the here and there houses and manicured lawns of the Turner Falls estates. He drifted unnoticed behind his brother who was so absorbed in getting to his destination, that it seemed like he'd forgotten every scrap of training drilled into him by their dad.

Dean watched from a safe distance as Sam met with Olive.

She was beautiful and young and Dean could tell, even from a space of about 50 feet away, crouched behind a tree, that she was pretty broken.

So when they got up and took off, heading east through the park and towards a nearby block of houses, Dean's spike of dread bit down into him all the more.

Haste makes waste, that's what he'd heard before, sounded like something a grandma would say, something that Mrs. Milliver might crochet on a pillow.

The proverb comes back to Dean now though, because he's skulking along behind his brother and Olive, up the hill, off the path when his fucking untied shoelace trips him up.

Dean's not clumsy, he's anything but, that's more Sam's quirk, Dean's always been more cat than human in a lot of ways, but haste really does make waste because he trips on his own laces. He'd left them undone in his hurry to leave the room and now he pays the price. He goes down and then jumps back up, heart racing as he ties them haphazardly and watches the dwindling form of Sam and Olive pass over the hill, out of sight.

He's cursing like a sailor under his breath as he tries to catch up but when he finally crests the hill the pair are nowhere to be seen.

He wanders down the deserted streets, watching the porches for signs of his brother, looking for lights in the windows, something that might clue him in.

He must have gone the wrong direction because he has no idea of the struggle that's happening in Olive's house until he hears the echo of the gunshot coming from up the street.

He takes off running, feet pounding the pavement. It feels like it takes an hour to go half a block but he finally sees the light on in a house in the middle of the street and he's on the porch and through the front door so fast it's like he teleported.

The silence is what he first notices.

Dean's been through his share of dramatic situations, at 19 he's seen more death than the average soldier and he knows from experience that when everything is quiet, that's the time to be afraid.

And right now the lack of noise is so noticeable it's practically a presence.

A woman, probably Olive's mother, is sitting on the couch clinging to her daughter who she has pressed against her shoulder, holding her head down so she won't look up. Her other hand is clapped tightly against her mouth.

Laying in a frozen heap is Olive, she's propped up on one arm, and favoring her left side. She looks like someone who's just about to drift into a soundless sleep, her huge brown eyes glazed over with shock and pain.

Sam is standing over them all, towering over them, he looks nothing like the little boy that had woken up less than an hour ago with mussed hair and frightened-rabbit eyes, who had rushed out the door with a look like he was trying to be strong but still somehow begging for Dean to save him.

Sam seems to have grown a few inches in the last 45 minutes, he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling with that trademark Sammy hitch to his shoulders but he doesn't seem so scared anymore, he looks every inch the hunter and man that he will become.

Every eye in the room is locked on the body in the kitchen.

The gelatinous mass of mottled flesh that was Olive's dad is slumped against the cupboards beside his daughter. His balding head, thrown back against the woodwork is decorated in the very center by a pretty, red chasm. A single tear of blood cascades from the hole, running merrily down his cheek, past sightless eyes that never even registered the shock of his own impending doom. His mouth is frozen in a wet snarl of contempt for everyone. In the contempt of that final misjudgment of a skinny looking kid that brought about his end.

The splatter of his brains against the wall behind his heavy head is not so quaint and poetic.

Dean looks at Sam now, only has eyes for his brother.

He inches across the entrance and stands behind him.

He slips a hand down to Sam's wrist and whispers, "give it to me, Sam" and Sam relinquishes his pistol without barely second thought, he doesn't even seem surprised that Dean is behind him. Like he's been expecting him all along.

Dean doesn't know what to do exactly, he just knows he has to get his little brother away from here, away from the scene of the crime that, judging by the state of Olive, he doesn't think was much of a crime.

Almost as soon as he thinks of her she seems to shake out of whatever haze or trance she'd been in.

She breaks that heavy silence with one word and suddenly the mood shifts from shock to awareness.

"Sam. Give me the gun." She tries to get up, slips in her father's blood and crashes back down, crying out in pain and clutching her broken ribs.

Sam is at her side in a second, walking around the spreading crimson pool and crouching down next to her. "We're getting you to the hospital. Right now."

She nods, but doesn't budge when Sam moves to help her to her feet. "Listen to me, Sam." She clutches the sides of Sam's face with her pretty hands, her right one painting a scarlet print of blood against his jaw. "You cannot be here. It's only a matter of time before the police show up and you *cannot* be here."

Sam is shaking his head furiously, "I'm not leaving you."

"Yes. Yes you are!" Olive has *that* tone of voice the one that made Sam fall for her in the first place, firm and gentle and determined but absolutely unwavering.

When she speaks again it's with a clarity that seems impossible given the situation. "I won't have them find you here and charge you for this, this is my mess, I have to clean it up. Besides they'll go easy on me, it's self-defense and I'm a minor. I'll be ok. Make your brother give me the gun."

"No, Olive. I have to stay here, I can't leave you, I have to make sure you're ok." Somewhere through all the strength, Sammy's slipped a little bit, like it's starting to hit him and his voice cracks over the last word.

Dean hears the sense in Olive's word and he edges over to the pair on the floor, approaching Sam like he would a scared animal. "She's right, Sammy," he says "we need to go."

Even as Dean says it there's the faint thrill of a far-off siren breaking through the night, coming closer and closer.

"Leave, please, right now! Olive pushes Sam back and Dean wipes the pistol off on his shirt and hands it to her.

She takes it resolutely, the drying blood on her hands leaving slippery smudges on the silver handle. "Go through the basement door so no one sees you leaving." She points down the hall and looks up at Sam, her liquid brown eyes resolute.

"Olive," Sam's choking but Dean's urging him towards the hallway "Olive, I love you." "Come on, Sammy." Dean wrestles with his little brother and tries to get him to follow, but he doesn't budge.

"I told you, Sam, don't do that."

Sam lets himself be pulled away then, Dean's got him by the hand and they go through the hall, and down the basement stairs, Dean's pulling him, practically dragging him, while the voice of a the siren turns from a mutter to a scream and the lights of a couple police cars spark out red and white through the darkness.

Dean drags Sam away from the scene, trying not to let his brain make connections to the last time he remembers carrying his little brother out of a house while sirens wailed and smoke billowed.

Life as Dean knew it had ended that night so many years ago, gone up in a puff of smoke and a roar of flames and he's determined to exhaust every breath in his body making sure that Sammy's life goes on from here.

~oOo~

They go all the way back to the motel at a dead run.

It's not until he's over the threshold and the thin door is latched behind them that Sam feels the weight of the night hit him like a brick to the face.

Dean catches him when he slumps down. "Whoa, whoa, hang on Sam!" He mutters, guiding him over to the table and into a chair.

Dean runs to the bathroom and Sam hears the water turn on. He gets something out of the fridge and Sam looks over to see his big brother uncapping a bottle of ice water and setting it beside him.

Dean kneels down in front of Sam. He's got a washcloth wet with warm water and he begins to wipe away the blood that's smeared on his hands and on his face.

"Shhh..it's gonna be ok, it's ok." Dean's whispering under his breath while he gently cleans away the blood and checks him for injuries and suddenly, Sam finds he can't breathe.

Sam's got a resting heart rate of 48 bpm, he's run 3 miles in under 20 minutes before and been barely out of breath, so he knows it's not the short dash back to the motel that's got his breath coming in strangled gasps now. He's choking on air, trying to slow his racing heart and failing miserably.

Twice now he's confessed his love to Olive, the first was to her silhouette in the darkness after their first night together, the second time, tonight, was to her scrunched-up shivering figure sitting drenched in the mess he'd created. The pool of her father's blood pouring out from the exit wound caused by Sam's bullet.

And both times her response has been the same, begging him not to love her. He didn't listen the first time and he finds he can't listen now.

"We...I-I..have to go t-to the h-h-ospital." Sam chokes out in between gasps. He's rocking back and forth while Dean attempts to look him over and calm him down and clean him up all at the the same time.

"Sammy." Dean grabs Sam's wrist with one hand and his chin with the other. "Sammy, look at me. You are not going anywhere tonight. I fucking mean it. I'm sorry, I know you've been trying to go solo these last few weeks but this time you're listening to me. You're staying here until morning at least and getting some rest. I'll handcuff you to the goddamn bed if I have to."

"She's alone." Sam doesn't stutter over the words, his breathing is still rough and ragged but it's not got that high, gasping quality to it anymore.

"She'll be ok for one night, Sam." Dean holds onto Sam's wrist a bit tighter and Sam recognizes the gesture as Dean trying to ground him with a touch.

"S-she's alone and I-I...d-d-did this...I did this. I-I..." his momentary control flies out the window and he dissolves into panicked sobs.

Sam's scaring Dean, he can see it written in the barely there lines of his big brother's brow.

19 and he's already got some worry lines. Sam knows a lot of them were put there by him.

Sam tucks down all at once; not knowing what else to do for the moment, he leans into his big brother, puts his head against his chest and rests it there like he's trying to hide from the terrifying world outside.

Dean keeps his hands on Sam's wrists and doesn't say anything, just lets Sam cry and hiccup and catch his breath, lets him wear out and settle down against him.

When the panic attack has subsided a little, Sam sits back and looks away from the pointedly worried gaze of Dean. "Come on, Sam. You're going to bed." Dean gets up as Sam wipes his face on his sleeve and Dean helps him to his feet and over to his bed.

He crashes down on top of the covers, suddenly so exhausted he can't stand up anymore.

He wants to run back out, he wants to go to Olive and be there for her and tell her he'll make this all better somehow, to comfort her, even though he realizes he's the cause of the problem now. But he wants to tell her that he's sorry, even though he knows he can't just say sorry for something like this.

He wants, with every bone in his aching body, to get right up and run to her.

But Dean covers him with a blanket from his bed and makes him sit up and drink some of the water he got for him. He urges Sam to lay back down, but it really doesn't take as much urging as Sam would like.

"I have to go. I can't sleep. I can't..." Sam's still muttering as Dean turns the light off and without his consent, sleep overwhelms him.

 **Had to add a dash of Dean taking care of Sam at the end there because that poor boy needed it and honestly they both need it.**

 **Dean's gotta fulfill his nature as the sponge that soaks up all his little brother's pain.**

 **I didn't end on such a cliffhanger this time, and I realize that this chapter didn't really have much of a twist.**

 **I intended to take it one way, but decided that it would be too soon so I've got some big plans for the next chapter if I can work out the logistics properly.**

 **It's gonna take me a bit of research so don't be surprised if the next chapter isn't published quite so soon.**

 **Please please please let me know anything and everything that you think about all this! I want lots of feedback because it helps me so much!**

 **Thanks to all of you! I really try to personally thank you all, but if you're a guest reviewer I want to say thanks a million! Your feedback is appreciated tremendously!!**


	7. Not That Stupid

**Well, here it is finally! I struggled so long with this chapter because I originally intended to take it in a completely different direction, one that would have involved copious amounts of research and honestly, felt stilted and out of context when I tried to write it. So I sat down and wrote this and now I'm not sure if it's any good.**

 **It's entirely from Dean's perspective this time, I felt like it gave me us an opportunity to see Sam from the outside and made it easier to keep to the 'show not tell' rule.**

 **Hope you like it!**

There's only one hospital in town, a small, country hospital called "Turner Falls General" so the boys have no problem finding out where Olive was taken.

Dean insists on coming with Sam; he tells the nurse at the front desk who they're looking for and that they're friends of the family and she points them down the hall to room 103.

They stop off at the hospital's small cafeteria on the way to her room and Sam gets her a raspberry flavored mineral water.

"It's her favorite drink," he says quietly.

When they get to her room she's sitting up in bed. She's pretty pale and got an IV line in her arm. The machine is beeping quietly and dripping some kind of mixture of pain meds and fluids. She has a dazed look on her face, a combination of shock and opioids, Dean guesses. Every intake of breath looks painful for her even with the meds.

Sam is standing by the foot of her bed, holding her drink in one shaking hand and looking like he's caught between pity and fury. Pity for this sweet girl who's sitting there bruised and broken, and fury for the man who died by his hand.

"Hi, Sam," she whispers "and...Dean, right?"

Dean nods and starts to feel awkward. "Nice to meet you, Olive." He doesn't know what else to say, they met the first time under such awful circumstances and now he just feels like the third wheel, which is kind of a new sensation for him. He touches Sam on the shoulder, points to the hall to indicate that he's giving him some alone time with Olive, and steps out.

He walks down the hall a ways and stands, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"Dean?" A familiar voice pulls him from his trance and sees who else but Mrs. Milliver standing in front of him.

"Dean, honey? You ok? What are you doing here?"

Dean wonders at the fact that she can call him 'honey' after knowing him for about 3 weeks without him minding.

"Hey. Yeah, Sam's just here visiting...a friend." Dean replies.

He doesn't want to get into the details of anything that's happening with Sam and Olive right now. It's too touchy of a subject to work around and he hasn't entirely worked out the lie he's gonna tell if asked details about the previous night. He prays to god that no curious eyes of Turner Falls citizens were peeking out of the dark windows.

The look Mrs. Milliver gives him after his reply does little to set his mind at ease. She smiles a straight-lipped smile and nods quickly. "Well, I'm glad you boys are alright. I gotta take this pie down to my friend. She just had knee surgery and I figured she could use a little homemade sweetness for a pick me up." She starts to walk off, then turns around. "Stop by the office later if you want a slice. I learned a long time ago to always make pies in double batches." She smiles again as Dean nods vigorously, eyes widening-this time it's a genuine smile. She teeters off towards a room at the end of the hall and Dean drifts back to his thoughts.

The lie can be simple enough. Complicated lies are never believable anyway, Dean knows. He doubts they will even be questioned, Olive had more than enough reason to shoot her father and these small town cops aren't likely to investigate much beyond the obvious. But Dean's gotta be prepared for the worst. He decides that the reply should be cut and dry, Sam didn't know a thing about what happened to Olive until he got a call from her the next day. He just has to hope that no one saw them skulking around last night, then his plans are ruined.

Dean looks up and sees Sam walking towards him, still holding Olive's drink in his hand.

"What's up, man? Why didn't you give her the drink?"

Sam shrugs, "she didn't want it."

He keeps walking, right past Dean and towards the door and Dean jogs to catch up with him, feeling a twist of compassion at the dejected set to his little brother's shoulders.

When they get to the front steps of the hospital, they're met by Olive's mom and little sister.

Olive's mom looks haggard, dragging her feet and still wearing the same clothes she had on the night before. She's as pale as her tan skin tone will allow, a sallow, tiny woman with a beaten down gait; the picture of battered woman.

When she sees Sam and Dean she seems to grow suddenly, straightening up and looming as much as a woman just over 5 feet can.

Sam isn't meeting her gaze and he tries to walk past her but she steps in front of him, letting go of Mabel's hand. She stands there for a very long time, reaches out a hand to grip Sam's forearm and just keeps staring. Her brown eyes, huge and intense like her daughter's, are locked on Sam who seems to almost be in a trance.

Dean can tell his little brother wants to look away, wants to run away, probably. He's leaning back and breathing heavily, his entire posture gone rigid, but he's frozen in place by this small woman and her accusing eyes.

She speaks finally and her heavily-accented voice is both sharp and choked at the same time. "Stay away from my daughter." She whispers. Then she lets go of Sam's arm and grabs Mabel's hand again. She walks into the hospital-more like limps-and the doors swing shut behind her.

Sam looks so pale and unsteady that Dean wants to reach out and catch him but after a moment he seems to get ahold of himself and he walks back towards the sidewalk, and Dean follows along behind him, not saying anything, not knowing what to say.

"Boys! Hey! Sam and Dean!" The Winchester's turn around and it's Mrs. Milliver again, coming down the sidewalk towards them. She looks at Sam maternally, her eyes taking in the tired slump to his shoulders and the red cast to his eyes.

She smiles sadly, "No need to walk all the way back, hitch a ride with me! The old wagon's not glamorous but there's plenty of room and I bet we're going the same way."

Sam starts to protest but Dean talks over him, "that would be great, thanks."

Dean takes Sam by the elbow and they follow the old lady to a big, ugly, brown station wagon. The car has the same feel as her motel, outdated but clean and comfortable. There's an afghan strewn across the backseat, an umbrella under the driver's seat, and a box of kleenex in the middle. Such a typical old lady car. Dean moves the tissue box to the floor and sits a little closer to Sam than is perhaps necessary, watching his little brother's dazed face for signs that he's about to break.

He doesn't know what Olive must have said to him but he doesn't think that this mood is entirely the fault of Olive's mother. He's worried as always. This situation is worse than he could have possibly imagined and it likely isn't gonna improve in any way.

The silence in the car is heavy but it doesn't seem to bother Mrs. Milliver. She's got that same steady expression on her face, even though she keeps casting glances back at Sam, whose trance doesn't waiver for the 10 minute car ride.

When they pull into the motel parking lot, Dean and Sam get out and Dean thanks Mrs. Milliver for the ride while Sam wanders towards the door of their room.

"Dean?" Mrs. Milliver beckons him up to the window of the car and leans towards him earnestly. "Come have some pie with me, later, ok, honey?" She looks pretty serious about it, her brow furrowed and Dean nods.

Sam is already in the bathroom when Dean comes into the room a couple minutes later. He sits down on the bed to wait for him to come out and hears the creak of the pipes as the shower turns on.

The drink Sam bought for Olive is sitting there dripping condensation in a ring onto the table. For some reason the sight of that makes Dean feel incredibly low. That, and the memory of how Sam looked walking out of Olive's room. Dean is front and center for the fall now and he doesn't know how to be there for this one, he doesn't know how to block this hit.

A few minutes later, Dean hears the water turn off and Sam comes out of the shower, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Dean looks at him in scrutiny, as much as he can without Sam noticing the stare. He still looks pale and smaller, like he's been kicked, but his eyes are just blank, there's no sign that he's broken, just almost in shock. Dean wants to ask him. He has so many questions. First and foremost what can he do to help? But he doesn't know where to start, he doesn't know how to begin down that line of questioning that might end in Sam closing up even further. So he just sits there in the silence.

It's barely 2 in the afternoon and Sam already has what counts as pajamas on. He rolls over on his side, facing away from Dean and starts thumbing through a book that Dean can't see the title of.

The feeling of unease that has twisted at Dean since their first week in Turner Falls is worse than ever. He feels paralyzed and tied up in knots and horribly frustrated. He just wants John to come and take them far far away and for all of this to be over.

Dean gets up and gets a shower himself after he sits for a long while. It's evening before he remembers Mrs. Milliver's offer of pie.

"Sam," he says quietly as he towels off his hair "I'm heading over to the office to have some pie. Wanna come?" He sees what Sam's reading now, 'The Catcher In The Rye' he's curled up with it holding it sacredly like it's the Bible or something and he barely shakes his head in response to Dean.

"Ok, I'll bring you back a slice." Dean grabs the room keys and heads out the door.

Dean opens the door to the office and a big orange tabby cat slinks past his legs and outside. "Oh man, sorry!" He says trying to catch the cat with his legs and failing.

"Oh, darnit! Franklin! Heeere kitty, kitty!" Mrs Milliver calls out and Dean holds the door open while the chubby cat looks around at the great outdoors a bit and then heads back inside, apparently choosing safety over adventure.

Dean closes the door quickly before the cat can change it's mind and Mrs. Milliver laughs, "got hungry for that pie after all, huh?"

Dean nods and follows her to the back where she cuts into the pie and hands it to him with a smile.

Dean thinks she'll go back to the front office like she always does, but instead she pulls up a chair across from him and settles down.

"These old bones need to rest awhile," she seems to read his mind "and I think we need to have a conversation."

Dean feels a spark of fear at her words. "What's up?" He asks hesitantly.

She wraps her weathered hands around a cup of coffee that she's sipping, pulling it close to her chest and clears her throat. "Well I wanted to talk to you about Sam's friend. Little miss Olive. I know the girl, she used to help me out around here for awhile before she moved on to working at The Bookworm."

Mrs. Milliver drifts for a minute and Dean feels the spark growing into a flame.

"Off!" She shouts suddenly as the aforementioned Franklin hops up on the table and eyes Dean's pie. She pushes him off with a gentle but firm stroke then rolls her eyes and continues.

"She'd just clean up the rooms for me now and then. One day she was bending down to clean under the desk and I caught a glimpse of all those bruises she wears on her back..." Mrs. Milliver still looks troubled by the memory, she sighs and continues "I know that's been going on a long time. I know that...whatever happened..." She's been staring into her coffee up until this point, now she lifts her eyes and levels Dean with a stare "whatever happened" she repeats, "that bastard deserved it."

"I don't know...Sam didn't" Dean starts to sputter out the lie he rehearsed but he doesn't get very far. There's just no bullshitting this little lady.

"Dean." She shakes her head lightly "I'm not asking. I just want you to know a couple things. One, going to that hospital today and being seen with Olive might have been a mistake. If I can figure it out this easily the cops shouldn't be far behind. And two, I know for a fact you boys never left your rooms last night. You were helping me out with some repairs around the place, remember?"

Dean nods slyly, catching on, then feels overwhelmed by gratitude. "Thanks." He says and the word comes out tighter than he'd like.

"Alright, now you finish that pie." She gets up and pats him on the shoulder and goes back out to the front.

Mrs. Milliver packages up a slice of pie for Sam before Dean leaves and he carries it back to the room.

When he gets inside, it's completely dark. Sam hasn't turned any lights on and after Dean's eyes adjust a bit to the dark, he makes out Sam's form still lying on his side on the bed. He doesn't appear to have changed positions or moved at all since Dean left, he's got the book he was reading laying propped open next to him like he's given up on even that.

The dull thrum of the air conditioner is the only sound to be heard.

Dean goes to the bathroom and when he comes back out he leaves the light on and cracks the door a bit, letting some light shine into the room.

He goes carefully over to Sam and kneels down beside him, he picks up The Catcher in the Rye and closes it and sets it on the nightstand.

Sam's expression is frightening. He's staring at the wall with wide open eyes that are so blank he looks dead. Dean's heart twists with fear for a moment before sees the reassuring rise and fall of his little brother's chest beneath his layers.

Dean reaches down and adjusts the tangled blankets at the foot of the bed and pulls them up and over Sam who doesn't stir. "Can I get you anything?" He whispers.

Dean takes Sam's lack of response as a negative, but gets him a plastic cup of water from the bathroom faucet and a half-eaten bag of pretzels anyway.

"You should try to eat something, Sam."

He thinks about offering Sam the pie he brought him but it seems like the wrong time. Dean sighs and gets up and lays down on his bed.

It's only 10 o' clock and he's miles from tired, but he doesn't dream of turning the tv on or going out. He decides he's just gonna sit here in silence with Sam. If Sam decides to tell him what's going on, then that's good, but even if he doesn't, at least he's gonna be there with him. Whatever he's going through Dean will be damned before he'll let him go through it alone.

With the quiet and the dark and no distractions, Dean starts to worry in earnest. He knows everything Mrs. Milliver said is true, they did make a mistake going to that hospital to see Olive, he should have made Sam wait. He thinks of the nurses and visitors that saw them going in to see her and of her mom who seemed irate enough to maybe turn them in if it came right down to it.

Another thought occurs to him; how is Olive gonna explain where she got the gun? The only thing he can think of is if she says it was her dad's-it's unregistered and so it can't be traced back to them at least. He hopes that he managed to wipe all their fingerprints from it thoroughly. From it and everything else.

It's not like he doesn't have practice covering his tracks, he's adept as any criminal at leaving a crime scene cleaner than he found it, at wiping prints and picking up evidence and erasing literal and figurative footprints. But the fear doesn't let up even so, the fear and the longing for John to come back and take them as far away from Turner Falls as possible.

The sound of Sam stirring shakes Dean out of his thoughts. Dean watches his little brother in the dim light as he rolls over onto his back and sits up, leaning against the headboard.

He stays like that for awhile and then reaches over and flicks the lamp on.

To Dean's amazement he takes a long drink of the water, finishes it in a few swallows, then actually looks at Dean.

His eyes are still blank, numb, but he hasn't been crying that Dean can tell and there's a twinge of something like painful resignation about the set of his jaw and shoulders.

Dean huffs quietly, he can't stand it anymore "Sammy, what happened?" Sam gives no immediate sign that he's even heard Dean, just sits there glaring at him.

Then the hand holding the plastic cup clenches into a fist, the little red container crumpling in Sam's strong grasp and he mutters a sentence so quietly Dean has to strain to hear him above the purr of the air conditioner fan.

"She doesn't love me. She's not that stupid."

Sam tosses the crushed cup on the floor, flips the light off and rolls back over.

 **Well there you have it.**

 **I know, I know...poor Sammy...I shouldn't hurt him like this.**

 **Thanks to all my amazing reviewers and readers so far. You all make me so happy. :D**

 **I would really appreciate more input on this chapter. I always appreciate it but I'm extra unsure of this one.**

 **Please and thank you! :)**


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